


Venus Flytrap

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Minor John Watson/Original female character, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, holmescest, mentions of other canon characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24105835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Mycroft shows up in Baker Street, fuming. He was told that Sherlock had saved Irene Adler. For a reason he had not anticipated but he will soon find out.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 37
Kudos: 80





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> Everything turns into a fix-it these days! But I like to make Sherlock's life happier than it is in the show. Much happier!

Before Mycroft could say anything – which would have probably been a sour ‘good morning’ – Sherlock smiled at him. It wasn’t an exactly nice smile. Gleeful it was. No surprise here… Bested again, the brother who had always claimed to be ‘the smart one’.

“Ah, Mycroft. Two hours later than I’d estimated. You’re slipping. John. We need beans. And toast.” Sherlock had even bothered to dress for a change – a new black suit that Mycroft had not seen yet. A light-blue shirt that matched the colour of his eyes. What a contrast to the bed sheet…

John, dressed as usual in a hideous jumper – an ugly yellow one this time – and jeans that had seen better days, scratched his head, looked confused. Nothing new here, either… “Um, what? Mycroft probably has a case for us and…”

“No, trust me, John, he does not. He’s here to tell me off.”

The doctor looked at Mycroft as if his face would tell him anything. “What for?”

“Not your business, John.” It had been Sherlock who had answered. “Beans. Toast. Now.”

“You know, you bossing me around is not my favourite…”

“Leave now, John. Believe me – you wouldn’t want to witness the scene that’s about to come.”

John pinched his nose. “Um. You’ll be all right?”

Oh, the faithful little doctor. Mycroft gave him a look bordering on disgust, which he ignored, as usual.

Sherlock smirked. “Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure… Give me a call when I can come back.”

“Oh, I’ll text you.” Sherlock wasn’t looking at the doctor. He had not glanced at him for a single moment since Mycroft had entered 221B Baker Street, actually. He was staring at Mycroft, who had not gotten to say anything so far.

But he would. Oh, he would…

Suddenly, despite the wrath he was feeling, he suspected that he shouldn’t have come though. It had been a stupid idea. He should have told Sherlock off on the phone and moved on to more important subjects other than a blackmailing prostitute who sadly still had her nasty head on her bony shoulders.

But it was too late. John had left and he and Sherlock were alone. And Sherlock's face said, ‘Showtime’. But what kind of a show would it be? And why did this feel like a… trap?

Mycroft shrugged off this most uncomfortable feeling and finally fully entered the living room. Anger was taking over again. “You must think you’re very smart.”

“Oh, I am. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it.” A cat that had gotten the canary was nothing compared to the triumph on little brother’s face.

But… It wasn’t only triumph and smugness about having pulled one over him. There was something else Mycroft could not identify. His own deductive powers were not quite enough to decipher his own brother…

“Yes… Very smart. Leaving the country to save this… _woman_. After pretending that you hate her.” Oh, this moment when Sherlock had talked her into the ground, typing in the password. How she had pleaded, _‘Everything I said – it’s not real. I was just playing the game.’_ And how Sherlock had given her a nasty smile and said, _‘I know.’_ And had added in the coldest voice Mycroft had ever heard from him, _‘And this is just losing.’_

Mycroft had felt… He didn’t know how, actually. Proud, yes. Relieved, definitely. But also… touched? Sherlock, who had seemed to have fallen for the schemes of the oh-so-irresistible Miss Adler had basically given her to him, stripping her off her protection and stomping on her plans and her obvious sentiment for him.

And then… Then he had flown to Karachi to save her… And Mycroft had not learned about it until an hour ago, several days later. It was embarrassing. Agents had been fired. His brother was under surveillance! How could he leave the country and do this right under his nose? Well, with false papers… A silly disguise as an old man… They would have never found out if Miss Adler hadn’t been recognised at the Las Vegas airport, using false papers as well, either provided by Sherlock or her dear Jim Moriarty. Only then, when it had been obvious that she had not actually died, his men had been able to figure out that Sherlock had secretly come to her aid. Saving the damsel in distress. This undeserving nobody of a bloody bitch…

It had made – and still made – his blood boil. What was she to Sherlock? Why had he risked his own life to save hers? She should have been dead! Mycroft had known that Sherlock had fallen for her but obviously it was much worse. Sherlock apparently _loved_ her. Mycroft was sure they would meet again. And he hated the prospect… He had even made a fool of himself, worse than ever, when he had spoken to John about Sherlock's possible feelings for the – at this time allegedly dead – Irene.

John… Why had Sherlock sent him away? Because he also slept with the doctor and didn’t want him to find out that his rival was still alive?

Suddenly he realised that Sherlock had stopped talking. He was watching him. Closely. Basically dissecting him with his eyes. And on his face there still was this weird expression of not just triumph. It was worse. So much worse… Mycroft grew cold. Sherlock had realised it. After all this time. He had been slipping in more than one regard. In the plane, especially. Showing how much Sherlock's – unwilling – betrayal had affected him. Showing how… jealous he was…

And he was doing this again right now.

He could feel his cheeks flush. He had to leave. With the last bit of self-control and trying not to look terrified, he pointed a finger at Sherlock, knowing that his brother hated that. “You can be proud of yourself. Now she can go on supporting your dear old friend Moriarty. Let’s hope this won’t backfire at you. Don’t come begging for my help if it does.” And with this, he turned to leave.

But he did not get very far…

“I saw it, Mycroft. In the plane.” Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper. But nonetheless forceful. And merciless.

Mycroft remembered the conversation in the plane with all those dead people very well.

How he had mocked Sherlock with not figuring out Irene’s scheme. With showing off, dancing like a puppet at its strings.

‘ _I drove you into her path,’_ he had said. _‘I'm sorry. I didn’t know.’_

And he had shown his hand. Or rather: his heart…

Had he really thought he had gotten away? At this point, Sherlock had been too focused on Irene and how to finally get the passcode. But now that it was all over and she was safe, he could attack.

“I need to go,” he said, and then Sherlock had hurried past him and was blocking the door, a positively feral grin on his face.

“No. Not going anywhere.”

 _God… He really hates me… He wants to destroy me…_ And he had given him the perfect ammunition…

But what… What was he doing? Mycroft looked down on the long fingers that were sliding over his chest. Well, he was wearing a coat above his three-piece-suit. But he could still feel the warmth of Sherlock's hands, caressing him…? Why? Was his brother, the virgin, really so keen on bringing him down?

“The Iceman. Isn’t this the joke of the century?” Sherlock put his hand flat on Mycroft's chest, directly over his heart. “They are so stupid. Both of them. They have no idea what you really are about.”

“And what’s that?” Mycroft heard himself croak.

“A man. A man who… wants… desires... I had suspected it for quite some time. And then, in the plane, I was almost completely sure. Almost…”

Mycroft opened his eyes in shock. Sherlock had planned this. Had handed Irene’s phone to him to please him – and then make him fume by saving her. He had not saved her because he cared about her…

Sherlock tilted his head. “Really, Mycroft? You think I’d give a damn for a woman who made me look like a fool towards you? I did fall for her tricks. She knows how to play; you have to give her that. But I didn’t want to fuck her.”

Mycroft winced at the profanity.

“Not _her_ …”

Mycroft stared at him in total disbelief. The silence around them was lingering. Mrs Hudson was not in the house. Neither was John. And it actually felt as if they were the only people alive.

It had not just felt like a trap. It _was_ a trap… Sherlock had wanted him to come, to finally prove his deductions right. To make him burn with jealousy.

And like Sherlock had been hanging in Irene’s web, he was now caught in Sherlock's. His eyes were drowning in those blue-green seas of seduction. He had never seen such a look on Sherlock’s face. In fact, nobody had ever looked at him like this.

He meant it. He had neither wanted Irene nor did he sleep with John. Sex did not alarm him, though – Mycroft had been wrong about that.

“You know – you’ve always been a coward. You would have never acted on this.” Sherlock gave him a look that was close to contempt. He had stopped stroking him. “I felt someone stare at my bum in the Palace. Thought it was your friend Harry. I know he’s gay. In the closet.”

“Like your little doctor? It was obviously him.” Why did he still try to talk himself out of this? It would never work… But Sherlock was right. Not just about looking at a body part that should be of no interest to a brother. He had indeed always been a coward regarding these… urges. Feelings. Want for the one man he could never have.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No. John doesn’t give a damn about my backside. It was you. You wanted to fuck me, right there and then. To punish me. To possess me.”

“You are insane.” And then he swallowed hard when Sherlock started to unbutton his shirt. “Stop this.”

“Oh, why ever? You want it. Want me. Want to cover me in kisses. Bruise me up with your teeth.”

“Are you high?” This thought only occurred to him now. But Sherlock didn’t look high. At least not on illegal substances. More like on illegal… desires? Was he getting mad, too? Why would Sherlock want this?

“Totally sober, brother, I can assure you.” Sherlock shrugged off his shirt, revealing his pale skin, all plane muscles and smoothness.

Mycroft forced himself to look into his eyes apart from a glance that lasted barely a second. Long enough to get drunk on his brother’s beauty. Long enough for Sherlock to confirm his suspicion – as if there had even still been any doubt. “Why do you hate me so much?” God. He sounded like someone from a bad soap opera.

Sherlock actually snorted. “The Iceman. More the Stupid Man.” And then he unzipped his trousers and stepped out of them. He was gloriously naked beneath them.

Mycroft shook his head. “Let it be. You’re mad.”

“Yes? You want me to get dressed again?” Sherlock wrapped his hand around his impressively long cock and quickly pulled at it. It was already hard. “Want me to put this away? Play decent little brother? You have no interest in fucking me? You should see your pupils, brother. If Irene’s were already dilated, yours are exploding.” He stalked towards him, and Mycroft backed away until he hit the wall.

“Let me…” he pleaded.

Sherlock's face was very close to his now. “Let you what? Fuck me? Yes, brother. Do it. Show me why sex should alarm me.” His hand reached out and touched Mycroft's crotch.

His cock basically sprang up against his flies. His head felt dizzy and weird. Like he was standing next to himself, watching them. And then his lips crashed against Sherlock's and he stopped thinking altogether.

***

It was almost violent. Rough. Urgent. Needy.

Sherlock's fingernails, digging into his shoulders. When had he become naked? One second, he had been wearing his usual armour, the next one, he was in the nude like Sherlock was. Everything was a flow, a stream of frantic touches, graceless kisses with clacking teeth. No finesse. But honesty. Need. Greed. Hunger. He hungrily plundered his brother’s mouth, tasting tea and spit and getting high on the softness of those lips. He grabbed Sherlock's arse cheeks hard, squeezed them, certainly leaving handprints on the pale, tender flesh. Sherlock was pulling at his cock brutally, weighing it, grabbing his balls in an exquisitely painful way.

They were both leaking, their erect cocks grinding against one another. Everything was a fight for domination. Two alpha males. One more acclimated to physicality than the other. Not yet sexually so far but it gave Sherlock an advantage. He used it. Mycroft let him.

Mycroft tasted blood – little brother had bitten on his bottom lip. His eyes were glistening with more emotions than Mycroft could count. Regret was none of them. Neither was guilt…

Sherlock's hands were everywhere. Exploring him, pinching him. Leaving marks all over his upper body.

Eventually they crashed onto the couch, to which Sherlock had guided them, walking backwards.

Sherlock had, very unsurprisingly, landed on top of him. Mycroft’s cock was getting squeezed between their bodies. Pain. Of a sweet kind.

His hands were sliding up and down on Sherlock's back. He felt his brother’s teeth against his neck. He wasn’t sucking bruises into the tender skin. Sherlock was still in control of his actions. More than him.

Only slowly his brain kicked in again. He felt like watching himself doing things to his little brother that he had never even dared dream about. It was madness, of course. Mrs Hudson could come back and walk in. So could John.

It didn't matter now. It was as if they were acting in a bubble, the world outside now numb and meaningless. Nothing mattered but them.

He forced Sherlock up to claim his mouth again, holding his face in an iron grip, his thumbs rubbing over his cheekbones. That look in Sherlock's eyes. Nobody had ever been in his position; nobody had ever been looked at by these glorious eyes like this before.

He was feeling no guilt. He was proud. And he wanted more and he wanted it now. Sherlock had asked him to fuck him. And didn’t he always indulge him in the end?

Sherlock saw it in his eyes. And grinned. He reached down and pulled something out from under the couch. A small bottle.

“Presumptuous,” Mycroft breathed, unable to hide his amusement. It was the first word either of them had spoken since they had clashed together.

“Prescient,” disagreed Sherlock, his eyes sparkling, a smile pulling at his plush lips, reddened and sore from their kissing.

Mycroft didn’t insult his brother’s intelligence by asking if he’s sure. Instead he pushed against his shoulders, making him tumble backwards, and placed Sherlock against the opposite armrest of the couch and put a pillow under his arse, which was indeed showing his red handprints. He only took a moment to admire them before he coated his fingers with the sticky fluid and started to open Sherlock up for him. He couldn’t wait to impale his brother on his cock. And the way Sherlock was gazing at said cock, which was longer than Sherlock's, dark-red and bent against his stomach, the slit leaking little droplets of pre-seminal fluid, filled him with pride. For once, he was allowed to take control. Be big brother indeed. When his knob first made contact with Sherlock's fluttering sphincter, he closed his eyes in bliss.

***

Fuck, it hurt… Being stretched open like this… It burnt and stung. Mycroft’s fingers had been fine. Sherlock had not gone into this without any experience at all. He had only used one finger though, penetrating himself in a rather difficult angle. It had felt nice. He was responsive to anal stimulation, even his own.

But Mycroft's cock… It had been a sight to behold and felt like a broomstick. Well, the approximately two centimetres he was in his heavily lubed-up arse now…

He was biting his lip, trying not to show his discomfort. Then he caught Mycroft's look. His brother had been focused on his other end, getting into him, but now his eyes were directed at his face.

Sherlock would have expected him to say something like, _‘Bitten off more than you can chew, little brother?’_

But what he did say was (and it shouldn’t and didn’t actually come as a surprise), “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock brought out, and somehow he relaxed more at his brother’s kind words and look. He could have lorded it over him - his own cockiness, backfiring at him. He could have mocked him. Sherlock had been so provocative before. So straightforward and tough – and now he was struggling with being fucked as he had requested it. But he should have known that Mycroft would never do this. Like he would have never told him about his feelings, he would never hurt him. One word from him and he would pull back.

Sherlock slung his legs around Mycroft's waist. “Go on.”

Mycroft gave him a smile between exasperation and indulgence. “Of course. You would never back away from a challenge, would you?”

“Shut up and fuck me, brother.” Sherlock winked at the man who had just become more than his brother to show that he wasn’t out for a fight. Not that he would have been – quite literally – in the position to start one. But he wouldn’t have anyway. Fighting was a waste of time – if one could have this instead. So much more fun. Mentally, so far. But Sherlock didn’t doubt that the physical part would follow soon enough.

“If it hurts too much, I’ll stop.”

Mycroft, the voice of reason. Boring. Caring. Sherlock had often thought these were two words for the same thing. He might reconsider this, he assumed. Still…

He stretched his arm to put a hand onto the back of his big brother’s head and pulled him down. “If you stop, I’ll jump you and take you back in.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, sighing. “That’s exactly what you would do. Well then. Let’s have a ride...”

And a ride it was.

***

They never lost eye contact apart from the moments when either of them closed his eyes in an attempt to deal with the overload of physical sensations. Energy was flowing between them, messages were transported without words.

Mycroft felt as if this most amazing encounter was happening on several levels at the same time. The physical side, the feelings he experienced due to fucking Sherlock's amazingly tight, dripping hole, stimulating his painfully hard cock, was the most obvious one. It filled every cell of his body with arousal and need to get more, to be deeper inside his brother, to claim him more possessively. But there was more. It was as if he could see himself, fucking his little brother, knowing he should be ashamed and terrified – but knowing that he, in fact, had Sherlock not only at his mercy but was, in a weird sort of way, protecting him by taking him. Because who else would have been better suited to take care of the sexual needs Sherlock had obviously discovered, in all probability by dealing with this sex-soaked case? Nobody should be allowed to touch baby brother but him. They were not worthy of his attention, all those faceless goldfish, let alone Sherlock's unimportant friends.

The harder he thrust into Sherlock, the more frantic they searched for the other one’s mouth, exchanging kisses that made something far beneath any sexual arousal burn and bloom. His soul, his _heart_ was being touched. They were getting closer on a level that Mycroft had not expected. And he was sure neither had Sherlock. What had his brother aimed for in the beginning? To humiliate him? Find out what sex was about with someone who he knew cared for him deeply? Or had he deep inside wanted them to… what, fall in love?

In fact, Mycroft had been in love with his little brother, secretly desiring him, for longer than he would have wanted to admit even to himself. _Of course_ he had been staring at Sherlock's arse in Buckingham Palace. Of course he had wanted this to happen – having sex with baby brother.

But Sherlock… Sherlock was staring into his eyes with more want and something that definitely looked like affection. He was impressed by Mycroft's forcefulness. He had not expected this experience to be anything like this. And it made Mycroft proud. Not quite the lazy office sitter now, was he?

Gathering all his physical strength, he curled his arms, which had so far been resting on the couch on both sides of his brother, around the slim waist and lifted Sherlock up, not for a second stopping to fuck him.

Sherlock all but gasped but slung his arms around his neck and his arms even tighter around his midst, trusting him to be able to hold him up. With one deep, violent stroke Mycroft pushed him over the edge while their lips were connected in a greedy kiss. Sherlock came with a cry, his muscles constricting around Mycroft's member, forcing his climax out of him.

They collapsed on the couch, both panting and gasping for air. Their heads knocked against each other accidentally. Sherlock giggled and Mycroft grinned – both feeling a sense of completion. A satisfaction way beyond the physical one was spreading in him.

Mycroft knew he had to go though; there was no time to dwell on these feelings now. They had been so lucky to not have been caught but this could change any moment. He realised that he had to attend a meeting in approximately twenty minutes. Well, he would text Anthea to postpone it. But he needed to refresh himself and leave before John decided that he didn’t want to stay away any longer.

But he didn’t get up. Instead he curled his arms around his brother – because when had they ever spent so much time with each other without being at each other’s throats? This was… nice… And he didn’t want it to end so soon. “How was that?” he whispered, stroking over Sherlock's sweaty back.

“Surprisingly amazing,” was the answer.

“Yes? You won’t be able to sit for a week.”

“Don’t be so smug. I will use a pillow.”

Mycroft nodded. “Telling your friends you suffer from haemorrhoids?”

Sherlock laughed out loud and pushed against him, almost making him fall off the couch. “Oops, sorry,” he said when he had caught him at the last second.

Mycroft felt a tad embarrassed but seeing Sherlock's sparkling eyes erased this feeling very quickly. His brother was having fun – he’d had when they were having sex and he also had it now that they were both sated. Mycroft liked this. “Menace,” he said, unable (and unwilling) to keep the fondness out of his voice. He knew that he had given his feelings away. His shields had been basically fucked off of him. He would have to live with the consequences. He felt like stroking a cheeky curl out of his brother’s face. But would that be welcome? Would Sherlock, as close as he was to him now, accept any non-sexual touch?

“Mmm. Would you like to do this again?” Sherlock asked to his surprise – and delight.

“If I say no, won’t you jump me at the next possible occasion anyway?”

Sherlock grinned. “You think you were so good?”

“Were I not?”

“You were.” Sherlock said. “And I would. Jump you.”

“Well then. I suppose there will be more of these… pleasant occasions.”

“Nicely put. God. I’d die for a cigarette.”

“I won’t kiss you if you smell like an ashtray.” Where had this come from now? Was he trying to torpedo this… beginning relationship? If that’s what it really was?

But Sherlock wasn’t offended. In fact, he almost looked relieved. “Good to hear that you’re still yourself, brother. So… How will it be? Meeting in your house, as I suppose you won’t risk being caught a second time, having sex and then part? Or…”

“Or…? Would you like this to be more? You’ve started it – you’ll get to set the conditions.”

“Lazy again?” But Sherlock winked at him. “Guess we’ll see how it works. But there is definitely lots more I’d like to do with you – sexually, I mean.”

“Consider me your willing test object.”

“You might regret this sentence.”

Mycroft laughed. “I already do.” But he didn’t. To be with Sherlock like this – something he hadn’t even allowed himself to fantasise about – was so nice that he was willing to expand his limits quite far to give his brother what he longed to experience. It wasn’t as if Mycroft was so used to physical contact. In fact, it had been ages since he’d been with a man. And compared to what he and Sherlock had just done, the already vague memories had faded to nothingness. He was very eager to do more. Lots more. But now…

He proceeded to get up. “I need to freshen up and leave.”

“Sure. It was nice of you to drop by.”

Mycroft grinned. Who would have thought that his brother was so funny? Well – until today, he had usually just made fun of him… “I should think so, too.” He winced in surprise when Sherlock kissed him. No shy peck – a real kiss. And of course he indulged him. Thinking he really didn’t want to get up to continue his day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he got lost in the kiss, in stroking Sherlock's alabaster skin – and then Sherlock's phone… _moaned_ … With a groan, he pulled back. “Oh no. Miss Adler. Does she want to thank you again? Or invite you into her new home?”

Sherlock shook his head, grinning. “You really shouldn’t be jealous anymore, Mycroft. I did nothing with her. And lots with you. And that’s how our ‘relationship’ is – she texts me, I don’t reply. Nothing to fret your pretty head about. And we do owe her something. Moriarty?”

Mycroft had to admit that. Irene’s phone had contained lots and lots of secrets about all kinds of people, just like she had claimed. It had helped to save the lives of British citizens indeed, reveal terroristic plans – and it had contained detailed information about Moriarty and his network. Irene Adler wasn’t an idiot for sure. Moriarty had used her – and threatened her. Of course she had gathered all the information about him that she could get – by sleeping with his right hand, Sebastian Moran.

They had brought him down – the Napoleon of Crime, along with all his accomplices everywhere in Europe. His men had not been as difficult to convince to spill their secrets to some skilled agents of the government as Irene Adler had been. Especially Mr Moran had talked and talked when put under some pressure – given the promise that he would not have to be in the same prison as his former boss... “Yes,” he said. “He’s finished. Thanks to her unmatched talent for pillow talk.”

“Indeed. Leave her alone, Mycroft. And ignore the moaning. I don’t want anything from her.”

But she wanted something from Sherlock… Mycroft regarded his gloriously naked brother and stroked over his almost hairless chest. Well, let she leer at him! She would never get him.

“That’s my big brother,” Sherlock all but crooned and kissed him again, and Mycroft indulged him for just a minute longer before he finally disentangled himself from him to return to the office after a quick scrub in Sherlock's untidy bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene when Sherlock finds out the passcode of Irene's phone, handing it to Mycroft after saying "And this is just losing," which might be my favourite moment in all Sherlock episodes, I have watched a million times. I was so pissed off when he saved her life. This devastating scene with her begging for mercy should have been the end of this episode as far as I am concerned. Did they really want to let us believe he was in love with her? How? They spend about half an hour with each other in total, maybe less, and in this time, she only humiliates and uses him. Making him look like a fool towards his brother. I had to give this saving-part another meaning. And what are the odds that Irene has no information about Moriarty on this phone? It is meant to be her protection! And in the beginning of this episode, Moriarty threatens to kill her! And since Irene is sooooo irresistible, even for Sherlock Holmes (grumble), I bet she would have found a way to get information about Moriarty and his network, too! Hence this fic :)


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Sherlock? Are you there?”_

Sherlock winced. He had completely forgotten to text John that he could come back. “Um, yes.” Freshly showered. His hair in order. But…

John showed up in his bedroom door. “Thanks for letting me know that… Oh fuck…”

So for once John had not only seen but also observed… Well, Sherlock could scrub himself down as much as he wanted, clean the couch from their combined semen, but he could do nothing about his sore lips. Or probably his expression… He had seen it on people’s faces all the time. And he assumed that it was equally visible on his. “Anything the matter?” he feigned indifference.

John stared at him for a very long moment. “Nothing. Except that you look thoroughly and utterly… fucked.”

“Hm. Do I now?” He could have lied – tell John that Mycroft had left and someone else had come, someone he had fallen in love with on the spot and had sex with after exchanging two sentences. But that would have been a bit obvious, wouldn’t it? Not even John would have bought that...

“I… I don’t know what to say.” John came closer. “Did you really…” He broke off, unable to get it out.

“...fuck with my brother? Yes. Problem?”

“You…” John stopped again, more than a little pale around the nose. He gaped at him, trying to make sense out of something he would never understand. But then he shook his head. “No. No problem. As I said – it’s all fine.”

“And you know my brother, the British Government, would let you disappear if you tried to give us away.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Yes, he would. But… I doubt very much that he did it against your explicit will.”

“Do I look as if he had? And do you find it very probable that he would have even managed to do it, even if he had been so inclined?”

“God no. I bet it was your idea and he didn’t have any chance to get away, hm?”

“Just like that.” Sherlock sounded proud to his own ears. And why shouldn’t he? He had seduced The Iceman (and had stopped being The Virgin) and Mycroft had agreed on having loads of sex after obviously also having had lived like a monk for ages. If this wasn’t a reason to be proud...

John shook his head again. “And he wanted it, fuck. He even had me kidnapped because he was… jealous. I knew his behaviour was off for a brother, even for a control-freak like him!”

“Well. It seems so. So. You can live with me being in a highly secret relationship, committing incest on a regular basis?” If this wasn’t a test for their friendship he didn’t know what was. But John didn’t disappoint him.

The doctor had shaken off his shock quickly. He even grinned. “Yeah. You’re Holmeses. Should have seen that coming.”

“Quite literally,” Sherlock punned, and John groaned, and then the partners in solving crime chuckled together, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feeling tremendously… happy.

**Two Months Later**

“Stop grinning, John.”

“You can't even see me!” John had made sure to not appear in the mirror behind Sherlock, who had just been rearranging his shirt collar after smoothing his hair down.

“I can feel it. Do I look so ridiculous?” Sherlock turned to him, a hint of genuine insecurity on his face.

It was adorable, really. For two months he and Mycroft had obviously been shagging like rabbits on speed – John had seen the signs at least every second morning – and Sherlock was still thinking he wasn’t handsome enough for big brother?

They didn’t just shag, so much was clear. Sherlock showed every sign of a man thoroughly and helplessly in love. And when Mycroft dropped by – at first meeting each other had been very awkward for both him and John but they had left this behind by now – he radiated sentiment and affection as well. Nothing was left of this cold, reptilian man with those icy blue eyes. Well, he still had those eyes of course but when they were looking at Sherlock, they were full of adoration – and love.

“You look great,” John soothed Sherlock, and of course he did. He couldn’t remember having ever seen Sherlock not looking great. “He will be all over you as soon as you enter his house.”

“Well, thanks. We’re going to watch a film together. His choice.”

“Oh, you’re going to the cinema?” John shook his head about himself when he saw Sherlock smiling wryly. “No. Stupid me.” Of course Sherlock and Mycroft couldn’t go out like any other couple. Sherlock had a publicly known face. And officially, he was at odds with his brother – they even still fooled Mrs Hudson. Mycroft certainly had enemies who just waited for him to show a weakness. Even a fond brotherly relationship was something the Holmes men wouldn’t want to show the world, let alone a romantic (and decidedly taboo and forbidden) one. It did fill John with pride that they had (sort of) confided in him. He would never betray their trust. But he did feel a bit sorry for them about having to be so discreet all the time.

Sherlock saw it on his face. “No need to pity us, John. My brother and I are not even keen on holding hands in public. Or doing other silly stuff normal couples do. And Mycroft has an impressive cinema in his house. If only his film collection wasn’t so dull…

Wasn’t that sweet? Sherlock, who tore every program he watched with John to shreds and got totally annoyed and bored by watching any telly for longer than ten minutes, kept his brother company at consuming… what, spy films? Old-fashioned thrillers? Because John didn’t really think that Mycroft had a preference for action films with car chases and explosions… “Ah, the things we do for love,” he teased Sherlock.

“Ha. Just to get him in bed, you know. My brother is an awesome lover. You should see his cock. It's bigger than…”

“Too many details!” John waved his hands and shook his head, grinning, when Sherlock snickered. “Arsehole,” he said, fondly.

Sherlock winked. “Ah, you should see his! It’s so pink and…”

John put his hands over his ears. “I don’t hear you.” He almost died laughing when Sherlock pulled off a very vulgar performance with the help of his fingers and tongue.

It was great to see Sherlock so happy – and yes, well, naughty. John would have never thought that Sherlock could ever be like this. It proved how good this relationship was for him. He wished him and Mycroft all the luck in the world.

Sherlock saw it on his face and smiled at him sweetly, and John knew that nothing and nobody would ever destroy their friendship – just as little as anyone would ever be allowed to sabotage Sherlock and Mycroft's unusual love.

*****

John felt a little out of breath already. What a shame… They had not literally chased any criminals for too long. He had let his workout slide… It was a disgrace. In his army days, he had been so in shape. And now a small belly threatened to develop. He couldn’t have that… And it was not the only reason for having a jog in Regent’s Park on this beautiful summer evening. He had not had any sex for too long so he needed to work off some pent-up energy… All the publicity working with Sherlock had gained him many dates. But never with someone he really clicked with. He missed it… And who would have thought that Sherlock, the notorious despiser of sentiment and sexuality, got laid regularly now while he…

And then something huge crashed into his side and he fell over. A terror attack? An old enemy from the army? A criminal they had brought behind bars and who was now taking revenge after having been set free?

No. It was a dog… A puppy, even though John didn’t want to imagine how big it would be when it was fully grown. A large black dog with lots of long fur and a bright red tongue that seemed to want to lick out his eyes.

“Boomer! Stop that! Leave the poor man alone!” he heard a female voice shouting in panic.

But John had buried his hands in the thick fur and was giggling uncontrollably. He would smell like dog slobber and his clothes were ruined, but this was just too funny. And he had always loved dogs.

“I’m so sorry!”

The dog was finally pulled off of him and John sat up. “Never mind. I just complained about not getting laid… to myself…” God, what was he saying here!

But the young woman just laughed. And she offered him her hand to help him up.

God… She was beautiful… A few years younger than him, with hair like dark honey and eyes like the bluest sea. No makeup. Her lips plush and pink by nature. And were there freckles on her nose?

“Boomer still has to learn a lot,” she said sheepishly. Her jeans were tight and revealed a trim, attractive figure. And the blue of her blouse matched her stunning eyes.

John grinned and patted the dogs head. The puppy was sniffing at his knees now. At least not his crotch… “It looks like, yes. But he’s cute.”

She beamed at him. “So happy you think so! I’m Lucinda Raves but my friends call me…”

“… Lucy?”

She laughed. “No, Linda!”

“Ah. I see. Silly me.” John held out his hand. “I’m Doctor John Watson.” God. Why had he added his title? He sounded like a jerk.

But she didn’t seem to think so. “Ha. A doctor! So am I.”

“Really? A medical one?” Sherlock would have deduced this at once of course. Followed by her favourite colour, her college and whatnot. But John wasn’t a detective. But he was a doctor… And obviously his name hadn’t rung a bell. Which was actually pretty nice...

“Yes. I run a doctor’s office with my father and another woman at Rossmore Road.”

“Just around the corner.” John had never seen it. Sherlock would have known that, too… He took out a tissue and wiped his face. Boomer huffed at that.

“Yes. I owe you a dry cleaning.” Linda gestured at his ruined clothes.

John waved this away. “Ah, nothing a washing machine can’t handle. But… Would you like to have ice cream maybe? You can tell me everything about this gorgeous dog.” She was pretty. Really pretty. And he loved the way she smiled.

And to his delight, she smiled again. “I’ll never say no to ice cream.”

“Excellent!” John knew that Sherlock had a wonderful evening with his secret lover now – and certainly would enjoy his special lolly at some point... But Doctor John Watson had the strong feeling that something really good had just started happening to him, too, and the ice cream he was about to eat at the side of this lovely woman would just be the beginning...

*****

“Is it over?” Sherlock suppressed a yawn. He sat up and smoothed his hair down. He had been resting his head on his brother’s lap for the past ninety-something minutes. Certainly a very comfortable place to be. And Mycroft had been stroking his back and hair. Very nice…

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at him. “It is.” He put the remote control back onto the table behind their seats. “Enjoyed the film, little brother?” he teased.

Sherlock shrugged, smiling sheepishly. “Let’s say you thankfully have better taste in men than in films, brother.” A black-and-white film about a queen and her two jealous lovers, ending with all of them dying theatrically. Their screams had woken him up...

“Very diplomatically put,” Mycroft chuckled. “Oh, what have I done to be involved with such a hopeless philistine.”

“This wasn’t _art_ , Mycroft. It was _torture_.” Sherlock reached for his glass and drank a sip of the excellent red wine Mycroft had proffered him. Nothing wrong with that!

Mycroft waited for him to put it back onto the table before he attacked him. “I’ll show you torture!”

“No please!” Sherlock begged and giggled and fought to be set free, but his horrible, lovely bastard of a big brother tickled him mercilessly until he stopped with a groan and reached out to his forehead, where Sherlock’s hand had involuntarily hit him. “It’s your fault, you know?” Sherlock mumbled but hurried to kiss the reddened patch of skin better. He smiled when Mycroft curled his arms around his waist.

“Nasty little brother.” Mycroft buried his face in Sherlock's neck, which felt decidedly nice.

“Very,” Sherlock confirmed. “But you love me anyway.”

“I admit that.” Mycroft kissed his neck and pulled back to look into his eyes. “So… Since my previous evening amusement wasn’t to your liking, what could we possibly do to…”

“Fuck me,” Sherlock interrupted him rudely.

Mycroft sighed. “No manners, this boy.”

“Mmm. You should try to fuck some into me.” Sherlock reached out to play with Mycroft's left ear.

The older man chuckled. “I’ve been trying this for months and it didn’t help one bit.”

“You must try harder then,” Sherlock suggested, helpfully.

“I do think so. Well then. Upstairs with you.”

“I thought you’d never say it!” Sherlock ran out of Mycroft's home cinema, and he heard his brother tut behind him, but he was following him and that was all that counted.

***

“That’s your rightful place,” Mycroft crooned and patted Sherlock's head.

Sherlock was not in the condition to answer him – as he was kneeling in the middle of the bedroom, Mycroft’s cock deep in his throat. He had not even allowed his brother to undress first; his trousers and pants decorated his ankles. Still sucking relentlessly, he showed Mycroft his right middle finger.

“Ah, so rude,” Mycroft said, pensively. Then he moaned. “But skilled… Oh, so skilled.”

Sherlock grinned around the large intruder in his mouth. This had become his favourite thing to do. Well, besides riding Mycroft's giant dick until they both didn’t know their names anymore. Or licking Mycroft's rosy hole. Oh, so rosy…

Mycroft moaned again and then he cupped Sherlock's chin. “Brother, this is most, oh, entertaining, but if you want me to fuck you, you need to stop now.”

Sherlock let him go with a plop. “Ah, these middle-aged men. Not able to get it up again, you reckon?” He stood up and let himself fall onto the bed. _He_ had undressed before Mycroft had even entered the bedroom.

“Beast. You know I can but not within five minutes. And given your impatience, you would prod and poke me and pout most unattractively and spoil the mood.”

The younger man glowered at him, hardly able to suppress a giggle. “I would not! And even if I did, it would be your fault for not controlling your transport!”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “We can’t all be world wonders in getting ready again, little brother.”

Sherlock grinned proudly. “No envy. You do benefit from my wondrous libido.”

“Ah, I do.” Mycroft winked and finally unbuttoned his shirt. “Get the lube, would you?”

“Can I sit on your face?” Sherlock felt his cock leak at the prospect.

“That you can do.”

Oooh. That was his favourite place to be. Well, or on all fours, being fucked. Sitting on Mycroft’s lap, fucking himself on him. In the beginning, Sherlock had fantasised about topping his brother, and they had done that, too, but he had discovered that he was the total bottom boy. His prostate tingled and danced most wonderfully when Mycroft was in him – with his cock or his tongue…

Mycroft had only lain down on the bed when Sherlock was already straddling his head, grabbing his cock and bending over to suck him while he would be masterfully eaten out.

*****

It was an almost Zen-like experience. No thinking of ghastly work issues or anything really, just tasting lovely brother’s puckered hole. Feeling Sherlock worshipping his cock. And listening to little brother’s uncontrolled stream of moans.

Mycroft grinned while his tongue was exceptionally busy. Not that in control of his ‘transport’ now, the great consulting prat. His grin turned into a grimace when Sherlock's tongue slid under his foreskin, delivering an evil twirl around his exposed crown. He could have admonished Sherlock for stimulating him again while he was preparing him for the fuck he’d requested, but Mycroft was quite sure that Sherlock would stop if he could feel him come. Perhaps he would squeeze his knob viciously to shush him away from the edge.

Ah. This was his life now. Pleasuring and being pleasured by baby brother. A good life, so much was sure…

Getting high on Sherlock's musky, sweet taste, he continued to open him up on his tongue, stretching him with two fingers to get deep into him. Sherlock cursed and bit his cock, which efficiently cooled down his arousal.

He groaned and Sherlock apologetically patted his thighs. “Sorry. God… That’s the tongue of the devil!”

“Nah. The British Government, at your service,” Mycroft corrected before resuming his delightful task.

Finally he decided that Sherlock was open enough to get through a hard ride without feeling too uncomfortable afterwards. He grabbed the lube and filled Sherlock's gaping hole to the brim. Then he urged him to reposition himself on the bed so Mycroft could kneel behind him and line up.

“Ready for the ride, Bucephalus?”

“Not a horse, brother!” Sherlock hissed, giggling, and Mycroft gave him a hearty smack on the arse.

“Quiet. Horses don’t complain.”

“Shut your gob and saddle up.”

And Mycroft pressed the thick crown of his cock against the dripping entrance and slid into his beautiful baby brother.

*****

His teeth were clacking. His curls were bouncing. All his cheeks were wobbling. His throat was eliciting high-pitched noises of pleasure. It was all most embarrassing. And most wonderful! His brother really was a force of nature if Sherlock only provoked him enough. Well, probably he would have been even without this extra incentive but Sherlock wouldn’t risk anything. He loved being fucked by big brother. It was his most favourite thing in the world. Forget getting high. Forget chasing criminals. This erased any threat of boredom and calmed his brain down (while setting his body on fire) better than anything could ever do.

Ah, Mycroft was so deep in him… His hands, his beautiful, elegant hands, were holding Sherlock's hips while he was pounding into him. His brother was not making any noises; he was only panting, throwing an ‘is that okay?’ or a ‘do you like that?’ in occasionally, as if Sherlock's responses were leaving any doubt that he was enjoying himself tremendously. But that was his big brother – always checking on his well-being, always concerned that he could hurt him. Which he never did. One day Sherlock would jump him and impale himself on him without any preparation (well, perhaps a bit and adding some lube at least), getting fucked as raw as possible.

But for now, he was happy having been licked- and fingered open by his sexpert of a brother and being fucked with care but force.

His orgasm was building up quickly now, his small, hairless balls drawing up, eager to release their load all over Mycroft's bed.

“Getting close, little brother?” Mycroft panted behind him.

“Yes! Fuck me harder! Fuck my spunk out of me!”

“I’ll wash your filthy mouth with soap,” Mycroft retorted and Sherlock almost collapsed, giggling, and he still laughed while he showered the silky sheets with his sticky seed, adding some loud moans to the laughter.

Mycroft followed him over the edge and Sherlock moaned again when he felt his brother’s load painting his insides. He loved the feeling of hot come erupting in his arse. Not so much feeling it dribbling out of him afterwards, but he could live with that.

“Naughty brother,” Mycroft said sternly, pulling him in after lying down on the bed.

“It’s all your fault. You’ve spoilt me.”

“Brat!” Mycroft gasped. “I may remind you that it was you who seduced me!”

Sherlock chuckled, rubbing his face against his brother’s hairy chest. “You call that seduction?”

“Well, you rather violated me…”

“Ah, that’s not true, either. Just needed to convince you.” Sherlock kissed the sweaty skin beneath his face. “I love this. Being like this with you.”

“Do you?” Mycroft's voice sounded very fond. “Well, I should hope so. I love you, Sherlock.”

“Big old softie. Iceman, pfff.”

“Menace.” Mycroft slapped his arse. “Say it back?”

His brother didn’t seriously doubt that he loved him, did he? “Why else would I be here, Mycroft? I gave you my virginity!”

Mycroft laughed out loud. “Oh yes. And you were very… clear about wanting to lose it.”

“I was,” confirmed Sherlock. “I’ve been spending every possible minute with you. I told you all my dark secrets. Of course I love you. What?” He had felt Mycroft tense at his words.

“Um… Maybe… There is something I thought about for quite a while. A secret. Of sorts. Well, you did know it a long time ago but you forgot it but now… I think I should tell you… I’m still not sure.”

Sherlock raised his head. “Mycroft, you are not making any sense! Tell me about what? Just spit it out.” What could it be? Mycroft, fond of wearing women’s clothes like Uncle Rudy? He was a spy for another country? What? Whatever it was, it couldn’t be a big deal.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well, tell you about… Redbeard… And our… sister.”

Sherlock gaped at him for a full minute. “Sis...ter?”

“It’s a long story…”

“Spit it out. Now.”

**Four Months Later**

John chuckled and patted the elderly woman’s back. “I won’t move out of the country, Jen. We can still meet.”

His colleague pulled back and wiped her eye. “Sure. But you know how it is.”

“Yeah.” Everybody was busy. He had two jobs after all – doctor and a detective’s right hand and blogger.

“So sorry to see you go,” Ruth, the nurse with the intimidating stare, said. “But it’s no wonder…”

John shrugged. He had not gotten along with the new boss of the clinic he had been working at for almost a year. The man was a snob and simply awful. And that John sometimes had called to say that he couldn’t show up for his shift because of his other job had not gone down well, either. So when his fiancé had offered him a part time job in her doctor’s office as her colleague wanted to work less, he had immediately agreed. Linda and her dad were working full time so if a case came along, he could stay away without much of a problem. He would take care of Boomer when Linda was working so she didn't need a dog sitter anymore. Sherlock and Boomer were best friends so that was no problem at all. Boomer had learned some manners – unlike Sherlock, he thought with a snigger – and could be taken to every case, waiting patiently until they were finished with their investigation. Even Donovan loved him. Everything would be fine – he had a really good feeling.

In three months, he and Linda would get married. It was quick but they were sure that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together. He would soon move out of Baker Street but of course still spend a lot of time with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. Linda and Sherlock were getting along much better than he had dared hope. Mycroft did have some good influence on him, he had to admit that. Sherlock might still be insufferable, snarky, arrogant and awful to people he didn’t like, but dealing with his brother and, in a very limited way, his incarcerated sister had a very good influence on him.

John had looked at Sherlock as if he had told him that he had been brought to the earth by aliens (which would have probably surprised him less) when Sherlock had explained that he had a sister he had totally forgotten about; a sister that had killed his childhood friend and had been rotting in a prison cell for more than twenty years now.

Since of course she would stay there, John would never meet her – and he couldn’t have said that he was very sad about it. Mycroft was already a sibling of Sherlock he had not taken that easily to (which of course had changed since he and Sherlock had become a lot more than brothers) but a murderous sister in a glass prison that helped the government with terroristic threats was a bit too much for a common man like John Watson… But Sherlock was visiting her every two weeks and they played the violin together and talked about their childhood. Sherlock had forgiven her for killing his friend out of jealousy and she had told them where to find his remains so his parents could finally bury him. Obviously Eurus was very happy about the regular contact with Sherlock.

Sherlock… How many people’s lives circled around this unique, fantastic, intolerable, loyal, unbearably smug, super-smart detective? He was their sun. For John, for Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson – and of course Mycroft and now even a sister he would never meet outside of a prison. It was most amazing, actually. But that was Sherlock. John would go to hell and back for him and no matter what happened now – getting married, maybe become a father – Sherlock could always count on him. And of course Sherlock would be his best man when he got married. John couldn’t wait for his speech! Mycroft would accompany him – but without being able to be his date. Nobody but John knew about them, which was a shame, but it was what it was. Their relationship had to stay a secret to everybody else. But the Holmes boys seemed to be very happy, and that was all that counted in the end.

When he had said goodbye to all his colleagues – doctors and nurses – in the station, he grabbed the carton with his personal stuff and walked towards the entrance. As always, it was strange to leave a job. But he couldn’t wait to start his new one.

When he had just stepped outside, he crashed into a woman – short, blonde and attractive.

“Oh, sorry,” they both said with a smile.

“I’m looking for Doctor Luther,” she said. “You know where to find him?”

“Oh, yes.” John explained the way to her. “First day?”

“Yes,” she answered with a bright smile and told him that she was a nurse, replacing one that had just been fired.

They talked for another five minutes before they parted.

A nice woman, John thought when he crossed the street. And then he stopped to take a call on his mobile phone. “Oh, Linda… Yes, I’m just leaving… Tonight? Sure! Can’t wait. Love you!”

And when he entered the tube, he had already forgotten about the woman named Mary Morstan.

*****

Sherlock sniffed. “You are cooking,” he accused. Steak. Fried potatoes. Probably also some green salad with lots of dressing! His brother/lover had still not given up on trying to make him gain some pounds…

“Guilty as charged.” Mycroft took his coat. “I’m pretty good at it if I may say so myself. And for all the hard work you and John did for our beautiful kingdom today, you deserve to be spoilt with a good meal.”

“Then you should have invited John over, too,” Sherlock said, reasonably. John had been almost brilliant during this case. Of course he hadn’t told him. It didn’t do to make the doctor any more smug than he already was. And yes, Sherlock was well aware that if he said this to John, the doctor would snort and say Sherlock was mixing them up…

“I should, yes. But I had bought only two steaks.”

Sherlock grinned. “Good excuse, brother. But I would have been happy with a different kind of meat. It doesn’t even have to be marinated and grilled…”

Mycroft shuddered. “Better not… Well, don’t I get a kiss, Mr Busy Detective?”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his neck. “That can be arranged.”

They kissed for a long moment, Mycroft's hands heartily grabbing Sherlock's buttocks. His brother was quite obsessed with them, Sherlock mused. That was definitely a good thing. Sometimes he worried a bit about all those handsome agents or office workers hanging at his brother’s lips. He seriously hoped that neither of they tried to seduce his brother. He would get very upset… And anyone who dared touch his man would find out the hard way that a furious consulting detective was a dangerous consulting detective…

Finally Mycroft disentangled from him. “I need to look after our meal. And since this doesn’t seem to be an appropriate reward for solving my case, what else do you request for it?” Sherlock beamed at him and Mycroft chuckled. “Oh, I see… So what do you want me to do? Let you fuck me in a handstand like last week?”

Oh, that had been nice… Yet another lovely experience that had earned itself a single room in his mind palace… But Sherlock could see that his brother looked rather tired and would not be up to something really adventurous. “No,” he said. “Just let me make love to you.”

Mycroft squeezed him tight. “That sounds like a very good idea.” He pecked Sherlock's nose. “Come, let’s eat and then we’ll be very nice to each other, hm?”

“We always are.” And wasn’t that a miracle? They were not only a perfect sexual match. They didn’t even row anymore. Well, not very often at least, and if they did, they made up (and out) very soon after. No condescending words were uttered, no doors were slammed… If they had an argument, they were totally civilised about it. And Sherlock would be the first to admit that Mycroft had never been the resentful and short-tempered of the two of them.

They loved each other, bottom line. Deeply and madly. And so Sherlock, who wasn’t really hungry, entwined his fingers with Mycroft's and followed him to the kitchen to take care of the dinner his brother had prepared for him, and they would eat and talk and then retreat into Mycroft's bedroom to have some really nice sex.

*****

God… This was feeling too good. There should be a law against -… Well, there was… Sherlock chuckled against Mycroft's neck, squeezing him tight. What a ridiculous law this was, trying to forbid them from being like this – his cock buried to the tilt in his brother’s delectable arse. Sherlock's groin was on fire, his heart was on fire… Nothing that felt so great could be wrong.

Mycroft turned to grin at him. “What’s so funny, brother dear?”

“Ah, those people with their idiotic rules and laws.”

Mycroft nodded. “Well, they don’t know what they are missing out on.”

“But then, they don’t have such lovely big brothers.”

“And such handsome little brothers.”

The brothers Holmes shared a smile that nobody would have expected from them, and neither of them cared one bit that they might appear sentimental. Between them, sentiment was a truly good thing.

Sherlock returned to the matter at hand and moved his hips forward. Mycroft gasped and rolled in his eyes in this particular way that told Sherlock that he was tremendously enjoying himself. “Do you like me to fuck you like this, hm? Nice and deep?”

“Don’t talk like a porn actor,” Mycroft complained, fondly.

“How would you know how porn actors talk, pray tell!”

Mycroft kissed his chin. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of people I only ever saw on DVD.”

Sherlock gasped. “You still watch porn on _DVD’s_?!”

“Brat! Stop mocking me and fuck me, Sherlock, or I swear you’ll find yourself on your back with my cock up _your_ arse!”

“As if that would be anything new,” Sherlock chuckled, but he did give Mycroft an exceptionally deep stroke as right now it was about fucking Mycroft, not him. And it felt so wonderful to be so deep inside his brother. He held him even tighter, burying his face in his neck, and started pounding into him in earnest, his balls slapping against Mycroft's pert behind with every deep thrust. Of course he had licked and fingered him open first, getting high on sexy brother’s infatuating taste.

Mycroft was panting now, even moaning quietly and Sherlock did his best to make him get louder. There were no neighbours they could have disturbed, no reason to contain themselves. It was just not big brother’s preference to shout his arousal to the ceiling and that was fine, but Sherlock loved to make him utter noises of pleasure, let go just a bit and be reduced his primal needs.

And when Mycroft reached his crisis, he did shout Sherlock's name to his delight, and Sherlock bit down on Mycroft's shoulder to not make him deaf with his own scream of pleasure when he flooded his lover’s tight canal with his sticky love-fluids.

“Hm… Cannibalistic Lock…” mumbled Mycroft, and Sherlock hurried to kiss his reddened skin better.

“Not my fault that you are so tasty, brother mine.”

“You still think I should have invited John, too?” Mycroft teased him after they had shared a long, loving kiss.

Sherlock shuddered. “Not really, no. Just the two of us, like it should be.”

“Yes, love. I will gladly carry the burden of your never-ending libido on my badly bitten shoulders.”

“Tosser.”

“Menace.”

Sherlock snickered and captured Mycroft's soft mouth in another breathtaking kiss, feeling safe and loved, and everything was indeed like it should be.

The End


End file.
